Carried in a pocket,
intrinsic value none,
my better self sees not the point,
my superstitious self absconds,
hijacking reason and just in case holds on,
a dirty old brass penny,
minted around World War One.
It rattles with my other coins,
rubs shoulders with the youth,
a Grandpa coin so oxidized,
its black as black from use,
and how many things it must have bought
in all its hundred years,
the stories and the tragedies that brings us all to tears.
I look at it for hours,
wondering who held it in the past,
a postman, a policeman, a soldier it did last,
now lost on any battlefield,
not fallen down a drain,
this simply blackened penny,
has survived many lives and then.
It sits inside my pocket,
a good luck charm of sorts,
and it reminds me how fleeting life can be,
our stories vast and tragic be
befits our human kind,
while pennies live much longer,
at least this one of mine.
Tony DeLorger © 2017